Tomorrow I go to a hospital. I’m going to see the latest pictures of my brain: black and white scans on a computer screen, pixels loaded with implications for me.
Because tomorrow we talk options. “The tumour’s behaving like a glioblastoma,” said my surgeon a few weeks ago. It doesn’t look like we can wait anymore. Glioblastoma multiforme is the deadliest form of brain cancer. Median survival is fifteen months. No one survives.
Tomorrow I stroll into the cancer clinic, shake hands with my favourite oncologist, and he’ll lay my options out for me.
Which chemotherapy sounds best to you? There are plenty to choose from. And I’ll wade my way through treatment. Still, sooner or later, I’ll die. In the meantime, though, as cancer debilitates me, I am not dying.
I am living.
They say I’m in a battle. That I’m a warrior. Sometimes I feel…
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